Pigs In The Pulpit

PIGS IN THE PULPIT

Chapter One • Welcome to the Pigpen

March 1996

It was a typical Wednesday night service at Word of Faith Family Fellowship. At least from the outset it seemed to be. Show up at quarter to 7, greet the regulars, find our seats and start praise and worship at 7:00 P.M. sharp. Go through our standard four or five musical numbers, settle down to a series of announcements and then strap on our spiritual safety belts till 9:30 or beyond.

This was the routine I had been accustomed to for a little over two years, and it was getting old. Really, really old. Initially I thought it was only me, but the sparse attendance at every mid-week service spoke volumes, even to the most casual observer.

The spirited singing and modestly skilled guitar accompaniment by the pastor were more than passable, and he handled the opening remarks, and the rest of the service for that matter, with smooth professionalism. He and his wife seemed to be trying hard, teaching our young children with their little Kingdom Kids programs. The pastor’s teaching and preaching were usually well-researched, moderately interesting, relatively challenging on a personal level and brought forth with a fair amount of panache and passion.

So what in the world was wrong with me? What was this dreaded, distressing inner force that started devouring my guts with a sickening, nauseating feeling so many months before, causing me to leave every Wednesday, Sunday or any other meeting full of frustration, guilt and paranoia?

Soon enough, this very night, I had my answer.

Pastor Jason Cletus Bower was in fine form. He was dressed immaculately in a custom-fitted green suit of some unknown shimmering fabric. It almost looked like satin. His dark brown hair was perfectly in place, well groomed as if from a razor cut. The toes of his leather shoes were polished to a high luster. His young, angular, handsome, clean shaven face almost glowed, framing his disarming blue-gray eyes. His tall, athletic build was perfectly postured and exuded confidence. He certainly looked the part of a “preacher,” and his abstinence from the wearing of jewelry, mostly derived from his Pentecostal background, only enhanced that image.

After he led a few semi-enthusiastic electronic worship choruses, took collection of our tithes and offerings and read the bulletin notes, he began the sermon at about 7:40 with his usual light banter. At times the anecdotes he shared could be downright hilarious. Yet this night, things were different. I couldn’t really put my finger on it at first, but the root of the problem that had been gnawing at me for so long began unfolding before my eyes like the plot from some B-grade horror movie.

The pastor suddenly turned his relaxed, cheery demeanor 180 degrees and started expounding forcefully on his intended topic: submission to (his) pastoral authority. His text for that evening came from 1 Corinthians, beginning in the 4th chapter, verse 18: “Now some are puffed up, as though I would not come to you. But I will come to you shortly, if the Lord will, and will know, not the speech of them which are puffed up, but in power.”

At this point, standing behind the hand-made ornate oak podium, he glanced up from his thick, well-used leather-bound King James Bible and paused, as if to emphasize the point, looking intently at our small group with an icy-cold stare that could only be described as menacing. He continued, “What will ye? Shall I come unto you with a rod, or in love, and in the spirit of meekness?”

Pastor Jason then launched into a rambling dialogue about there being “...some people in God’s church who always seem to know better than their pastor,” “...God’s appointed figure of authority over the flock,” “...those who want to willfully go their own way do so at their own risk,” blah, blah, blah. I had heard it a few times before, more frequently of late, to the point that it seemed it was becoming one of Jason’s favorite commentary themes. We were less than a quarter way through the opening discourse, and as his voice grew louder I already began to squirm impatiently in my well-padded seat a few rows from the platform.

I cast a sideways glance at my beautiful wife Laura, to see how she may be reacting to tonight’s performance. She was lovely as always, wearing a pretty white blouse, her gorgeous blonde hair expertly done, cascading down her shoulders. But what really caught my attention were her eyes as she followed Pastor Jason’s increasingly animated movements back and forth and up and down the platform. I almost laughed out loud because it looked like she was watching Sampras and Agassi volleying the ball over the net at Wimbledon.

Looking around the nearly vacant, freshly painted stark white sanctuary, without trying to be too obvious, I saw the Bradys, Mitch and Shala, sitting stiffly upright on the front row of plum-colored fabric chairs, eagerly nodding their approval. I expected that reaction from them, since they were relatively new to the church and Pastor Jason’s latest pet projects. Shala was an attractive middle-aged woman, well- dressed much like a professional going for a job interview. The Bradys had three lovely children, two already grown adults. They were not present, but I noted as I was watching them how painfully thin her husband Mitch appeared. He had been on disability for a long time due to a back injury. The pastor told me that Mitch had been praying and fasting; by looking at him, I’d say a little too much. His tall frame only accentuated his gauntness. My heart went out to him.

All the way across the brightly illuminated room I caught a glimpse of the pastor’s silver-haired mother, Marla Prentiss, seated in the very front, playing with her car keys as she noisily tried to slip them back into her huge dark-colored purse. I winced because I knew how angry Pastor Jason would get if someone caused a distraction while he was teaching, preaching or singing. It didn’t matter if it was his mother. One innocent violation and his wrath would come down on the perpetrator.

Seated directly behind Marla was faithful Sister Elaine Merchant. Elaine was like a pillar in the church, known as a real “prayer warrior.” Her age didn’t stop her from helping around the church in any capacity she could. You could always see the short, gray-haired lady busily scurrying around the building like a bumble bee, her wide smile punctuated by a few missing teeth. It was her cheerful demeanor that always made me smile when I was in her presence. Like many, she was impressed by Pastor Jason’s charisma and compelling personality, and tonight she hung on his every word.

There were a few others scattered around the auditorium in various stages of attentiveness. Seated directly across from us were Matt Carter and his wife Haley. Matt was a fiery young “lay minister,” short in stature but mighty in spirit. I would describe him as a Christian bulldog, seemingly always ready for a verbal sparring match. At some point in time he had been given the title of “prophet.” He had butted heads more than a few times with the pastor (and with others, including me) on a variety of issues. Some of these were due to his outspoken personality, but some occurred as a result of being “anointed” or labeled as a “prophetic voice.” Isn’t that what prophets do, shake things up, making people uncomfortable in their complacency?

His wife Haley, on the other hand, was a quiet, shy person. She was tall, thin, pretty with reddish-brown hair and fine features. She wore glasses, and her smile could light up a room. From talking with her you were immediately struck by her intelligence and sincerity. She was a teacher in the church and a great help in many capacities.

As I was checking them out I couldn’t help but notice their body language. Slumping in his chair, Matt had an exasperated look on his face like oh no, here we go again, as Pastor Jason’s voice carried on in the background. Haley didn’t seem much better. They both were known for their sense of humor, but tonight it appeared they didn’t find things quite so humorous. Perhaps they were beginning to feel as uneasy at church as I had been.

Over against the far wall to my right sat Dan Karch and his wife Betty. Dan had become one of my closest friends in the fellowship. In fact, more than a few persons had mistaken us as actual brothers in the flesh. He had a real humility and a desire to serve God, and both he and his wife had some musical ability as well. Why they weren’t participating more often in that capacity wasn’t exactly clear at the moment, but I knew that some tension existed between Dan and Pastor Jason. Tonight it seemed that Dan was nodding off from either fatigue or boredom, or both. He was leaning back in his chair, relaxing with his hands in his lap, his mouth hanging partially open and his eyes closed. It looked like a pretty good idea to me, but I didn’t want to deal with the repercussions of falling asleep in the middle of a lecture by the pastor.

I snapped my head around to focus on the pastor’s message, lest I incur his displeasure from the pulpit. It had happened before, and it wasn’t pretty. By this time, he had Scripture-hopped in his Bible over to 1 Corinthians 5, where Paul is writing on the Corinthians’ error of allowing an openly sinful brother to continue in fellowship with them. Paul’s solution was to cease fellowshipping with the offender, and to pray that the Lord’s protection be lifted off the unrepentant sinner until he came to his senses and cease from his wicked ways. How this passage of the Bible could be applied to us in attendance was a mystery, but that would quickly change.

Pastor Jason suddenly leapt off the platform like Tarzan, Bible clutched in his left hand, clearing all three steps and landing cat-like on his feet a few inches from the front row of chairs. He began screaming loudly and relentlessly at us, and I was startled to witness a huge glob of spittle literally leap off Jason’s lower lip, perfectly arc over the Bradys’ heads and land a couple rows behind them. I saw Shala Brady flinch in her seat as the spit-rocket narrowly missed her carefully coiffed hairdo. Thankfully, it wasn’t a Sunday morning, as someone in the crowd would have received a nasty facial baptism.

Jason started pacing back and forth like a caged animal, and as he came near where Laura and I were seated, I could see great balls of sweat begin forming on his brow and roll down his face. This was what he called “being under the anointing.”

Why was he shouting? I had heard him scream during his preach- ing theatrics many times before, but why tonight? What had provoked him? The point he was pounding home came from verses 3 through 5: “For I verily, as absent in body, but present in spirit, have judged already, as though I were present, concerning him that hath so done this deed. In the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, when ye are gathered together, and my spirit, with the power of our Lord Jesus Christ, to deliver such an one to Satan for the destruction of the flesh, that the spirit may be saved in the day of the Lord Jesus.”

Pastor Jason then calmed down a bit and explained, in great melodramatic tones, that anyone who went contrary to his teaching was no better than the fornicator in Corinthians, that you were at risk of falling into Satan’s snare, and if you continued in your unrepentant state, he (Jason) had the power to do something about it.

“You see,” he droned, “I am an apostle appointed by God and I started this church. God has given me discernment to be able to tell when you are sinning. And if you continue like that, and go against my advice and teaching and go your own sinful way, then he’s given me the authority to do something about you. That’s right.” By this time, to provide even more emphasis to his personal drama, he began nodding his head up and down like some deranged billie goat (another sign of “being under God’s anointing” according to him). I hated it when he did that.

He plowed ahead. “That’s right. That’s right, don’t shout me down ’cause I’m preachin’ so good. I am God’s appointed authority in your life. If you oppose me you’re opposing God. And if you oppose God, I’m not going to stand for it. I’ll pray God’s grace off you and you can go your own way, uncovered. God will take His grace off you like that (snapping his fingers) because He listens to me.”

“I am God’s appointed authority in your life. If you oppose me you’re opposing God.”

The whole church was so quiet you could have heard an ant peeing on a cotton ball. I sneaked a peek around the small auditorium, because by this time Pastor Jason was halfway down my aisle and had his back to me. I saw that Dan was wide awake, Matt was sitting bolt-upright in his chair with a furious look on his countenance, Marla had stopped fumbling with her keys and Elaine and the Bradys were frozen in time and space with surprised expressions on their faces.

That’s when it hit me like a proverbial ton of bricks right between my eyes, crashing into my thick concrete-reinforced skull with the force of a thermonuclear weapon of mass destruction.

This guy was so off base, so full of his own ego, so far removed from sound Biblical doctrine, that he was becoming demented...and dangerous.

I turned to Laura again, and this time she looked back at me. I could see by the look in her striking, almond-shaped, blue-green eyes that she was silently asking me a question, did I just hear what I think I heard? We had such a wonderfully close relationship, it was as though we could sometimes communicate just by looking at one another. I slowly nodded in sympathy to her bewilderment.

Pastor Jason was still jabbering on, but his voice was beginning to be just a faint buzz in the distance that I could choose to ignore, like when I’m trying to sleep late on a Saturday morning and the neighbor is mowing their lawn.

I decided to take a risk and allow myself to daydream. Call it an escape mechanism. I began to ponder some questions like, how did I get here? I am a reasonably intelligent person. I love Jesus. I want to serve God. I love my wife and kids. I want to serve the church. But how did I give myself permission to get to this point?

How did I allow myself to support someone “in the ministry” over the previous twelve-plus years, watching him progress from a young man having a dynamic, fresh vision for God’s church (at least I thought so at the time), to a control freak without equal, more concerned about his own personal power, self-preservation and self-promotion than anything else? A man who now proclaims to have the God-like power to pray and remove the grace of the Lord Jesus Christ off anyone whom he thinks opposes him? The very thought infuriated me...and intimidated me at the same time.

My mind began to wander, and as I sat there on that Wednesday night so long ago, I started to reminisce back to when Pastor Jason and I first met, in my hometown of Belmont, Illinois. Belmont was a small community of about 35,000 people, located on the east side of the Mississippi river approximately 15 minutes from St. Louis, Missouri. I was actually born in East St. Louis, Illinois, in 1956, and had been a lifelong resident of Belmont for 27 years. Belmont had a strong Dutch American foundation of a hard work ethic and simple blue-collar living. My grand- parents actually came over as German immigrants to the United States at the turn of the 20th century, and became farmers. My father Irvin and mother Margeurite received only an 8th grade education and followed in their parents’ footsteps, taking over management duties on the family farm located outside Belmont.

When my father was 49 and my mother 42, she became pregnant for a third time, and I was the surprise result. Many times I was reminded that I was unplanned...and unwanted. My brother and sister, being over 10 years older, essentially wanted as little to do with me as possible, an indifference that carried over well into adulthood.

Without going into a lot of detail (perhaps the topic for another book...my personal testimony), over the years I developed a wicked substance abuse habit that included alcohol, marijuana and narcotics. I was introduced, at age eight, to the allure and effects of alcohol consumption by my alcoholic father. He thought it was amusing to see his young son sample booze. I can remember many parties at my parents’ house when he would give me bourbon and soda, then sit back and laugh at me along with my uncles, his brothers, while they were playing pinochle. Eventually our “drink of choice” became Canadian whiskey. The brand label didn’t matter; the faster we could get drunk, the better.

My mother was also a substance abuser, except her favorite elixir came in the form of prescription tranquilizers and painkillers. No doubt some of that was in response to my father’s never-ceasing verbal assault on her, my siblings—Timothy and Susan—and myself. The only time I heard the word “God” while growing up was preceding the word “damn,” as in, “You’re no goddamn good for anything.” Needless to say, our family’s spiritual life was sorely lacking.

The only church I was exposed to while growing up was the Divine Science Church in Belmont. Divine Science had a loose connection with Unity Church teachings, the foundations of which are in the New Thought Movement of the late 1800’s. I didn’t know until much later that Christian Science is considered to be a cult by orthodox Christian theologians. At any rate, even by Christian Science standards, my immediate family were considered nominal members. The bottom line was that God and spirituality were way down on the list of Wittman family priorities.

I suffered through many indignities while growing up, which I won’t go into here. My only escape mechanism was through my artistic talents. I loved to draw; cars and comic strips especially. My dream since early childhood was to design automobiles, and I even planned to attend a college for design engineering and get a job with General Motors. My father had other ideas, however; his opinion of my artistic gifts and abilities was that it was a worthless pursuit, and flatly told me so. He wanted me to be a “bookkeeper” like my older brother Tim, and did everything in his power to derail my ambitions.

I did remain an excellent student, at least until my freshman year in high school. I was introduced to marijuana at age 15, and there was no looking back. LSD, mushrooms, cocaine and inhalants immediately followed. My interest in academics and the art world quickly fell by the wayside, as I now had access to a much more potent way to escape the pain I was experiencing at home and in my heart. My brother and sister by that time had married and moved away; so the hell that became the Wittman household was experienced only by my father, mother and myself.

I barely made it through high school; I was expelled for partying on campus my sophomore year, and it took quite a bit of work to catch up and graduate with my class in 1974. My college years were a complete joke, and I dropped out well before receiving even a two-year degree. Drugs and partying were my only interests.

Between 1976 and 1981 I bounced around several jobs and broken relationships, including a failed marriage that ended after only a year. I also had a brief stint in the U.S. Navy. Of course my substance abuse played a huge role in those personal disasters, in what was a never-ending pattern of failure. Topping things off was a failed suicide attempt. I was a total bust, even at killing myself!

I would move out of my parents’ house, only to move back when I fell flat on my face, time and time again. Why they continued to open their home to me, and my self-destructive, idiotic, abusive behavior is a great mystery, even to this day.

Fast-forwarding to the fall of 1982, at age 26 my life had sunk to new lows. I was fired from my job as Art Director for the St. Louis-based Journal Newspapers because of my substance abuse and associated outrageous conduct. By this time I had done everything in my power to totally distance myself from my immediate family. Even though I was living on my own, presently out of my parent’s home, I was basically destitute and living on the good graces of my “druggie” friends and fraternity.

In October of that year I attended a party at a friend’s house to witness the St. Louis Cardinals clinch their 1982 Major League Baseball World Series title against the Milwaukee Brewers. The booze and drugs flowed like a waterfall, and I hungrily consumed to my heart’s content. About 11:00 P.M. I collapsed unconscious on my friend’s living room floor, and awoke the following 2:00 A.M. to witness most of the previous night’s revelers passed out stone cold in various poses and places around the house.

I came up with the brilliant idea that, despite my condition, I would be better off at my own home, snoozing in my own bed, rather than spending the night sleeping on the carpet of my friend’s living room. So I staggered out the door, clumsily climbed behind the wheel of my beaten up car and proceeded to drive at 20 mph, weaving back and forth on a major highway, on my merry way to the so-called protection and safety of my dilapidated mobile home.

As it turned out, I wasn’t the only one traveling on the road that night, and thankfully someone spotted my erratic driving and called ahead to the Illinois State Police stationed in Swanson, Illinois. I was driving south on Route 152 towards Belmont and came up on the crest of a large hill immediately before entering the Swanson city limits.

Barely able to see out the semi-frosted windshield, I made out some flashing lights and a dark figure bravely (or foolishly) standing in the middle of the road. It was a state trooper, attempting to flag me over with his flashlight. Somehow, by the grace of Almighty God, I was able to pull over to the curb without splattering the body of this dutiful public servant all over the pavement. The officer ran up to my car, screaming at me to relinquish my keys. I already had them out of the ignition, rolled down the window and handed them to him.

What happened next is somewhat unclear to me: according to the police report, they tried to Breathalyze me on the scene, but I passed out, and the police had to place me in the back of their squad car. From there it was to the station house to be fingerprinted, while two Illinois state cops stood me up to keep me from collapsing like a wet dishrag. I was booked for Driving Under the Influence / Drugs.

Immediately afterwards they took me to Memorial Hospital in Belmont to be tested for drugs and have my stomach pumped. The hospital admitted me to the CMU, and I slept like a rock throughout the rest of the early morning hours.

After daylight I awoke from my comatose state to find myself in the hospital on the “mental” ward, as some would call it. The clean, antiseptic smell that is common to hospitals filled my nostrils. It helped me to identify exactly where I was.

I had missed my typically bland hospital breakfast and was alone in my double room, the bed next to me vacant. My head pounded as I tried to recall the previous night’s activities. As the fog lifted, I was horrified to remember that I had been arrested and almost ran down a police officer with my reckless and irresponsible driving. I was mortified. To this point, the person I was harming the most by my self-destructive course in life was myself. That was bad enough. But this time I had very nearly killed someone totally innocent, someone who was simply trying to do his job, protecting the public interest. I was astute enough to know that if I had succeeded in maiming or killing the young officer, I would have spent a good portion of my remaining years behind bars.

I was so distressed I almost threw up. I knew in my heart, the small place remaining in my empty, blackened mind that could still feel remorse, that my life was messed up beyond redemption. I was damaged goods. Lying there in that darkened room, the window shades drawn, unable to shed a tear, unable to take my next breath, I was suffocating at the revelation of my wasted life. I had to somehow take my mind off what was threatening to take me to a place of no return...a long stretch hanging at the end of a short rope.

I looked around and saw the remote control for the room’s television lying next to me on my bed’s comforter. I quickly snatched up the white plastic device and tried to figure out how to use it, scrabbling at the buttons in no particular order, hoping to launch the TV and mercifully watch some mindless entertainment.

As I hit the correct button randomly, the TV sputtered to life, brightening and illuminating the dark space in front of my bed. I played around with the bed’s electric adjustments until I assumed a position that was almost tolerable, and tried to settle back to see what was showing on the late morning programming.

To my horror I saw a familiar sight: Pat Robertson and the 700 Club broadcast. I had seen Pat and his cronies many times in my past channel hopping, and I can honestly say I despised them. There was Ben Kinchlow with his afro, and Danuta Soderman with her glistening smile, and Pat with his buttercup ears. I almost retched with disdain.

But this time I did not change the channel. Without trying to sound supernatural, I sat there transfixed by some unknown power. I stared at them on the screen, sitting on their simple production set, chatting. I cannot acknowledge nor can I remember what they were talking about, but one very important thing I do remember: they looked like they were happy.

I lay there in my miserable, drug-and-alcohol-ridden existence, locked in the “nuthouse” at a major municipal hospital after being arrested for DUI, looking at these happy people, wondering, why are they so happy? They were cheerful, laughing, prosperous, healthy. Why couldn’t I be like that? Am I cursed by God?

The next thing I remember thinking, silently and sincerely, was God, I wish I had what they have. The next moment would change my life forever.

Suddenly, the only way I can explain it, it was as if someone turned on a light switch in the deepest part of my being, in the inner man, in the hidden recesses of my soul. For the first time in my life, I was able to hear, and I heard the voice of God.

He said softly, in that still, small voice, I’ve been waiting for you to say that.

Those simple words rocked my world. I jumped out of the bed and looked around the room for the Source of that phrase. I saw nothing, but felt a very real and powerful presence, one that no drug could mimic and one I had never experienced before. The insides of me were on fire. Somehow I had just been given a transfusion of hope. I knew it was real, yet without a spiritual frame of reference, I didn’t know how to respond to what I was feeling.

I climbed back into the bed, and pulled the covers over me. I lay there trembling in the dark, my mind racing. Was that really God?

All is Not as it Seems to Be

The next several days were a blur and a whirlwind of medical exams, tests and interviews with godless psychiatrists. I tried to mention my experience with the 700 Club and God’s voice and quickly learned that if I continued with that kind of talk, I would have an appointment with the electric shock therapist. I decided it would be better to keep my mouth shut, and made a goal of leaving the hospital as quickly as possible and move on with my life.

Despite my hospital encounter with (what I now know to be) God, the following few months did not go well for me. I had to face my day in court, which was needful but not pleasant by any stretch of the imagination. I was sentenced to probation and a fine, which included ongoing outpatient treatment with a drug counselor. Fortunately, I had already initiated a counseling program in anticipation of the sentence, which impressed the judge and DA. I was on my way to “clean and sober”...at least so they thought.

It wasn’t long, and soon, like so many other addicts, my life tumbled back into full-blown addiction. By January 1983 I was an unqualified mess of unemployment, scrounging for drugs with my so-called friends, and one-night stands with less than desirable partying women.

At age 27, with my encounter with God and His voice of hope far behind me, my propensity for the bottle, the joint, the powder and the pill became even more all-consuming in my life. I was in the grip of a death wish fueled by drugs. I hated myself. I couldn’t hold down a job. All my relationships were fractured. My brother and sister, although they had their own personal baggage bequeathed to them from my dysfunctional mother and father, had written me off completely.

I was forced to move back into my parents’ modest home, a complete embarrassment and a complete disaster. It was like a dog returning to its own vomit, and my father never let me forget it. A nonstop onslaught of, “You’re a no-good piece of shit and won’t amount to nothin’” reminded me hour-by-hour of my many moral failures; yet it was infinitely more preferable to living in a cardboard box on the street. I just amped up my daily dosage of cocaine and barbiturates to cancel out the cacophony of my father’s daily rants.

So here I was, in March of 1983, with a seven-hundred-dollar-a-week coke habit, and an equally destructive barbiturate or “downer” addiction; one to keep me up and semi-functional during the day, the other to quiet my jangled nerves enough to sleep at night...and no job. I had stolen money many times from my parents in order to support my addictions. But by this time even my alcoholic, drug-addicted father and mother had figured out how to thwart my best efforts at pilfering their meager resources.

I had zero income and a monkey on my back the size of King Kong. In my weakened state of rationale I surmised the only way I could support my drug habit financially, because my parent’s money tree had been uprooted, was to steal my drug supplier’s stash. This was insanity. You would have to know my pusher personally, but if you did, you would understand I was committing suicide. If he had caught me in the act, he would have either beaten me to within an inch of my life or murdered me outright and disposed of my body. Such was the company I kept. But despite every reasoned thought to the contrary, the demons of cocaine hydrochloride were screaming for relief, and I dutifully submitted to their every beck and call.

I formulated a plan. I would drive to my dope dealer’s house, break in through the side entrance and steal his supply of cocaine. I knew that he kept his cocaine treasure chest in his bedroom; it would be fairly easy, once in his home, to trash the sanctity of his abode and find his illicit hidden assets.

It was an unusually warm Illinois March evening. I called my drug supplier’s phone number and verified that he wasn’t home. I packed up my pathetic toolbox of “burglar tools,” which really amounted to nothing more than a screwdriver, glass cutter, duct tape and hammer, placed them in a gym bag, and proceeded out my parent’s front door to my rolling junk pile 1968 Ford Galaxie with 168,000 miles on it. That’s all I could afford with my habits and lack of employment.

It was only a ten minute drive to his home, and my mind was elsewhere during the trip; music, girls, you name it, thinking about anything except to dwell on what I was about to do: break into and burglarize an ex-con’s home, who outweighed me by 40 pounds and carried a 9mm pistol wherever he went. Yes, I had broken the law many times just by ingesting illegal drugs, but I was crossing the line and committing a felony by breaking into and entering someone’s home, even if he was a drug dealer and a criminal.

Adding to the foolishness of my imbecilic plot was the fact that if I were caught in the act of burglary, I would be in immediate violation of my probation. This would not sit well with my probation officer, much less the judge. I would probably be sentenced to some serious jail time. But this reality didn’t matter to me. My conscience was silent because of the mind-numbing effects of the drugs that I craved and worshipped. All that mattered was the success of my harebrained mission.

As I turned my car into his gravel driveway I switched off the lights and ignition, and I rolled semi-silently up to the aluminum carport awning attached to the left side of his darkened ranch-style house. There was a lot of junk, garbage bags and debris piled under the carport, so I could pull in my vehicle no farther. As I got out of my car in the darkness, I looked up at the stars twinkling in a clear sky. They barely provided enough light for me to see and accomplish what I needed to do. I took a couple of deep breaths, grabbed my gym bag, steeled my nerves and walked toward the side entrance under the carport.

I had allowed myself five minutes to break in, go to his bedroom, toss the room and retrieve the prized drugs. Five minutes, no more. I didn’t think my nerves could take more than that. My heart was pounding in my chest as I approached the door. The upper half was glass, the bottom wood; there was no screen door. I knocked a couple times; the lights remained off inside the home. I hadn’t really planned what to say if someone came to the door...perhaps I would have run back to my car and escaped.

In any case, all was quiet, so I unzipped my bag and reached in and grasped my glass cutting tool with my right hand. It was shaking as I placed the tool on the lower left-hand corner of the door’s glass window. By that time my eyes had adjusted to the darkness and I could see clearly enough to begin cutting an arc in the glass, just above the door’s handle. My intention was to place duct tape over the glass shard and punch it out to prevent as much noise and fragments as possible, then reach in and unlock the door from the inside.

At that exact moment my crazy plan came totally unraveled. He was back. Who was back? Was it my drug supplier? No. It was Someone far bigger, far more awesome, far more powerful.

It was Him.

It happened so quickly I scarcely noticed it at first. It started with a gentle breeze, coming from behind me, to my right, blowing in the carport space. On such an unseasonably warm night, I felt this cool breeze and immediately got goose bumps. The hairs on the back of my neck and on my arms stood straight up, and I actually began to shiver. Not from fright or terror, but from the awesomeness of the presence that began to fill that small garage-sized concrete patio. I had felt that presence once before, in the hospital room many months ago, but this time it was as if someone had “turned up the knob” to well past 10. My knees began to weaken, and I almost dropped the glass cutter.

I did not hear His voice, however, even though I was fully expecting it. This time, all I felt was a tremendous peace, an uncanny calm coming over me. My heart, which had been racing only moments ago, started slowing down. I was feeling a peace in my mind and soul like I had never known before, and at that instant I had what can only be described as a Divine Wakeup Call.

My mind and thoughts, confused and jumbled most of my waking moments, came to a total standstill, and I had a moment of pure clarity and focus that had to be supernatural in origin. Out of my innermost being came the staggering question: What are you doing?

I had to get out of there...fast. I put my tools together and, casting a glance toward the window, I saw a faint line on the glass where I had already cut it. I didn’t care. My only goal was to get out of there and go home as quickly as humanly possible. I literally leaped the short distance to my car door, opened it and almost slammed it on my foot in my haste. I tore out of the driveway and drove like Mario Andretti the few miles to my parents’ house.

The short drive was a blur. Reaching my parents’ driveway, I slammed on the brakes and skidded to a halt in my parking space. I left my gym bag in the car and raced inside the house to find my parents sound asleep in their room. Good, I was glad. I didn’t want them to hear nor interfere in what I was about to do. I took a few steps toward my small bedroom and closed and locked the door behind me.

I stood there in the dark for a while, gazing out my window, how long exactly I do not know. I was excited, happy, scared and emotionally tender all at the same time. It was a weird feeling, but it felt good. I knelt down at the side of my bed and closed my eyes, and began to pray.

I just began to quietly talk to God. I had no preconceptions, no religious ideas and no expectations. It was just Him and me. I don’t remember exactly what I said or how I said it. I do remember calling on the name of Jesus, even though I didn’t really know who He was. I just started pouring out my heart to Him, apologizing, confessing, asking for forgiveness, begging for His help. As I wept and cried out to God, that now familiar presence began filling the room. Time went by quickly as I prayed and called out to God for hours and hours. I was sharing my life and all its failures with Him, and reaching out to be released from the demonic bondage I had been shackled with for most of my life. I finally fell into a wonderful, restful sleep sometime in the wee hours of the following morning.

The next day, as I was lying on my bed, I opened my eyes, facing my bedroom window, and saw the bright sunlight streaming in. I squinted and blinked a few times and finally propped myself up on one elbow. I was still wearing the same clothes from the night before. I looked at the clock on my night table and was somewhat surprised to see it was almost 12:00 noon. But it wasn’t the time of day that caught me off guard; it was what was happening inside of me that blew me away.

That absolute clarity of mind that I experienced the night before was still there. And there was something else: joy in my spirit! I broke out in a smile that I’m sure spread almost ear-to-ear. I rolled over onto my back, and extending my hands to the air, I began to softly say, “...Thank you God!” “...Thank you God!” “...Thank you God!” Over and over again I thanked Him. Hot, salty tears welled up in my eyes and rolled down my cheeks.

I know today that what I had experienced the night before, with absolutely no religious frame of reference, no coaching, no special church service, message or preaching, was total repentance and giving my heart to the Lord Jesus Christ. Mixed in with that glorious submission was a powerful deliverance from the chains of drug addiction and demonic oppression.

I started to laugh out loud, increasing in volume. My body shook like jelly as I had the longest belly laugh in my remembrance. As I lay on my bed, I caught a movement out of my tear-filled right eye. The door to my room cracked open; it was my father peering in at me. I didn’t remember unlocking the door, but there he was, with a quizzical look on his face, like what in the world is he on now?

Normally, opening the door to my room, before I was ready to re- ceive visitors, resulted in a tirade and profanity-laced explosion from me that would instantly repel the intruder from my hellish little cubicle. Anyone daring to enter literally risked life and limb because of my frequent hangovers. But today was different. Today was a new day! I didn’t know what the Bible called it then, but I do now: “Therefore if any man be in Christ, he is a new creature: old things are passed away; behold, all things are become new.” (2 Corinthians 5:17)

I sat up, looked my father straight in the eye, and said, “Hi, Dad.” He looked like someone had shot him in the head. He just stood there, halfway in the doorway, paralyzed by shock. The look on his face was hilarious. I believe now that it just wasn’t the sight of a sober and cheerful son that stunned him, but the sense that there was something different about me he couldn’t quite put his finger on. I now believe it was the presence of the Holy Spirit.

I started to tell my father, with the meager vocabulary I possessed on the topic, that the night before I had repented and given my heart to Jesus. He just stood there slowly nodding, probably thinking I had really lost my mind. He had seen me before under the effects of hallucinogenic drugs, and he was probably thinking about a particular PCP-fueled quasi-religious experience I suffered years before as a teenager that resulted in my spending sixteen days in the hospital. Oh no, not again was the expression etched in the lines creasing his worried brow.

But this time it was different. No one could deny my countenance had miraculously changed overnight, and the Holy Spirit was the con- firmation. I looked over my father’s shoulder as my mother’s face ap- peared in the hallway outside my room. I smiled broadly and said, “Hi, Mom.” Her response was simply, “Uh...hi. What’s going on?” I briefly explained again the previous night’s events. She said something that made me chuckle, which was typical for my mom: “Well, that’s nice.” Then she kind of rolled her eyes and walked away. My dad followed her and gently closed the door to my room.

I fell backwards on my bed, letting out a deep breath. My whole body felt so light, so free, like the weight of a thousand pounds had been lifted from my shoulders. I looked around my room at the posters on my wall, the mess on the top of my dresser, the things defining my life, and I was disgusted. It was as if the things I once loved, I now hated. Then my eyes fell on something that really caught my eye: a pack of Kool menthol cigarettes on my chest of drawers.

Every day of my life started with a smoke, even before my feet hit the floor. Two and a half packs a day were the norm, and coughing my lungs out each morning was the result. But this day, I saw that beloved white and green cellophane-wrapped pack, and there was, well...nothing. No craving, urge or unction to light up the burning weed overtook me. The thought occurred to me—or was it that still, small voice—you don’t need those any more. Did I hear His voice again?

As I put my feet over the bed’s edge and allowed them to touch the floor, I was checking myself every step of the way. Am I dreaming? Could I really be feeling this good, this whole and this free? I stepped towards the dresser, grabbed the pack of smokes and crumpled them in my hand, tossing them into the garbage can. Next, I opened the top drawer, and reaching under a pile of socks I pulled out a baggie containing a few one-hit bongs worth of pot. You don’t need that either was the impression in my mind, something I would never say just a few days before. Into the trash it went.

I stood there feeling freshness in my spirit and power and lucidity in my mind that I had not known before. It was as if I was embarking on a new course in my life, and God was steering the rudder. So I said out loud, “What do you want me to do?” The image flashed in my mind of the episode of the 700 Club I had seen the previous October while in the hospital. I immediately left my bedroom and headed down the hallway to the living room, where my parent’s miniscule 12-inch color TV awaited.

I walked up to our portable television that sat on top of an ancient, dead-as-a-doornail black and white Motorola console TV dating back to the 1950s. I turned it on and waited for it to warm up, my hand on the channel tuning dial. As the screen slowly brightened I began flipping channels in hopes of catching the 700 Club on air. My heart pounded with excitement and anticipation of something unknown, yet necessary, that I needed to do. I needed a daily fix, but this time instead of illicit drugs or alcohol, my heart longed to hear them speak about Jesus.

Lo and behold, there it was! It was almost unbelievable that I had happened upon the 700 Club broadcast at that particular time of day, at this exact crossroads in my life; but there it was anyway. I won’t try to explain it, just call it the ways of the Lord, wondrous to behold.

Ben Kinchlow’s face filled the screen. He had what I would refer to as a serious, but not stern, expression. I turned up the volume and walked backwards to sit in the family’s upholstered La-Z-Boy recliner. I can’t remember the exact verbiage he used, but this is essentially what he said: “You’ve been running from God. For years you’ve been partying, enjoying the high life, doing drugs, drinking alcohol. But you’ve come to the end of your rope. God has been calling out to you. All your life you’ve been told that your life has no meaning, but I’m here to tell you, that is a lie. God loves you and has a plan for your life, and if you’ll just pray with me He’ll reveal His plans for you and a way out of the life you’ve been living.”

I was amazed. I sat there with a smile on my face, crying my eyes out. I felt so much joy inside. I silently prayed c’mon, let’s go! I’m ready! So Ben led me in the sinner’s prayer and I formally asked the Lord Jesus Christ to be my Savior.

A tremendous sense of relief enveloped me, and I just sat back deep in the chair and exhaled. Ben then went on to say, “Now if you’ve sincerely prayed that prayer with me, I’d like you to call the phone number at the bottom of the screen, and speak with one of our counselors. They’ll tell you what to do next and about the next exciting chapters in your life as a Christian. God bless you.” The TV screen then went on to some other messages, but I quickly jotted down the phone number on a scrap piece of paper from our coffee table and stood up to make my way to the phone. I immediately came face to face with my father.

His face bore a strange look, and he sort of mumbled, “What ya doin’?” In the past, looking at him like that, thinking he was intruding on my privacy, I would have been annoyed at best and enraged at worst, but now all I felt was a real and genuine love and compassion for him. It was as if God was loving him through me. My only reply was, “I’m watching the 700 Club on TV. Check it out, it’s all about Jesus.” I smiled and walked past him to the telephone in the spare bedroom down the hall.

Picking up the white rotary phone, I quickly dialed the toll-free number provided by the 700 Club broadcast. I was excited to hear what was coming next. After a couple rings a pleasant-sounding young woman answered, identified herself and asked how she could help me. I gave her the Reader’s Digest condensed version of what had taken place in the previous 24 hours and ended with, “Ben Kinchlow said you’ll tell me what I should do next.” The young lady gave a cheerful little laugh and explained yes, she’d be happy to do that. She first needed my name and address so CBN could send me some literature on what it means to become a Christian, which I eagerly accepted.

The next step, she went on to say, was to refer new Christians to a church in their hometown, so they can get started off “on the right foot.” “Would you like me to do that for you?” she asked. “Sure!” I exclaimed, and she put me on hold to look up a name and phone number for referral. A few moments later she came back on line and told me to write down the name, address and phone number of an Assembly of God church located a short distance from my home in Belmont. I scribbled down the information and thanked her profusely before hanging up. She sounded genuinely glad that I had called them.

Step after step it seemed God was truly guiding me. It was a euphoric experience. I was sitting on the bed, with the phone in my lap, thinking about the possibilities of a new life with Jesus, and maybe, just maybe this new church could help me find my way. I picked up the receiver again and dialed the church phone number given to me by the telephone counselor. It rang a few times and a man answered and said simply, “Belmont First Assembly.”

In my nervousness I blurted out, “Is the pastor there?” He replied solemnly, “This is he, can I help you?” I identified myself and went on to explain again my conversion story, and my powerful deliverance from a life of drugs and alcohol just the night before. I also mentioned that the 700 Club had referred me to call him. I asked if we could meet and discuss this glorious new life that had been promised to me by the good folks at CBN Ministries.

His reply stunned me.

“Well...it certainly sounds like you’ve some kind of experience (sarcastically) but I don’t know if I’d get all that excited about it. I really don’t have time today to meet, or in the next few days for that matter. Why don’t you call back some time and make an appointment with our church secretary. I’ll see if I can make time for you then.”

I didn’t know what to think or say. I just mouthed half-heartedly, “OK, thank you”...and he hung up the phone in my ear without so much as saying goodbye. So much for my very first personal encounter with a “man of God.”

It was one thing to be treated rudely by someone on the phone or in person. I was used to that; it had happened many times in my 27 years on planet Earth. But what I felt at that moment was grief. I was grieved in my heart, and there was a sickened feeling in the pit of my stomach. What I was feeling so powerfully was the Holy Spirit inside me, grieving for the way I had been treated. I just sat there, holding the phone until the recorded message announced itself, reminding me to put the receiver back on the hook.

I slowly put the receiver down and thought to myself, what do I do now? Then a very strange thing happened. Immediately, an article I had read in the newspaper a few weeks earlier popped into my brain with razor-sharp focus. That I even remembered it in my previously drug-fogged mind was no small miracle in itself. The Belmont News-Democrat had published a full-page article about a young man attending college who was giving home Bible studies in his spare time. They showed a picture of a clean-shaven kid who bore a striking resemblance to Robert Walker Jr., an actor from Western movies and Star Trek fame. His appearance was so skinny and youthful he looked like an eighth grader. He was holding a Bible and what looked to be some sort of chart.

What really amazed me at the time is that the News-Democrat, while certainly no New York Times or Wall Street Journal by comparison, had devoted a full page to this young kid giving Bible studies. So why did God bring this news article to my remembrance at this particular moment, when I was so confused and disappointed?

Two things from that article were burned into my mind’s eye: his phone number and name. The number was 233-HiFi and his name was...Jason C. Bower.

I kind of sighed as I sat there and shook my head vigorously. I guess I was checking to see if I had a screw loose or something. But there was that undeniable presence of the Holy Spirit, God in my heart, that gave me renewed confidence and determination that I was indeed onto something, and it wasn’t fake. I was supposed to call the kid in that news story.

So I dialed the number and a young man answered on the very first ring. I was having exceptionally good luck getting people to answer the phone that day...or was it just Providence? I asked to speak with Jason Bower. The energetic answer came, “This is Jason, how ya doin’?”

I told him that I read the news article and that’s where I got his phone number. I went on to explain, for the third time that day, my wonderful experience with Jesus and how I needed to get some help and guidance on how to proceed with being a Christian. Jason listened intently, offering comments from time to time such as, “That’s great,” “Praise the Lord,” “Wow, that’s amazing!” He seemed sincerely happy for me. After a few minutes he said, “Well, would you like to meet? I have some time today; if you can make it over to my house, I’d be really excited to see you.”

My heart really warmed to this youngster, so I said, “Yes, of course,” and he proceeded to give me directions and said he would be waiting. We exchanged pleasantries and goodbyes and I hung up the phone.

I literally leapt to my feet and said out loud, “Yes! Thank you God!” Here I was with absolutely no earthly idea what I was doing, but God was leading the way. It was as if I was a clean slate, with no religious imprints to cloud, distort or impede what God was trying to tell me. We were truly fellowshipping in the spirit, and I was like a trusting child with his loving Father.

Leaving the bedroom, I grabbed my jacket off the hall tree and proceeded to the front door. My mother called out from the kitchen. “Mike, where are you going?” I’m sure she concluded I was on another drug pickup. I stopped in my tracks, turned around smiling at her as she emerged from the kitchen, walking towards me.

I said, “Mom, I’m going to meet a guy who gives home Bible studies, and he’s going to talk to me about Jesus and invite me to his church.” She looked at me with the evil eye like this kid’s lying to me again. But what could she say? All she said was, “OK, be careful.” I gave her a quick kiss on the cheek and out the door I went.

Sometimes God Comes in a Strange Package

The drive to Jason’s house was uneventful, and ironically just a few blocks from where I had attempted to break into my supplier’s abode the evening before. The first thing I saw as I slowed down to make a left turn into the driveway was a large, modern brick-faced church building next door, with a sign in front of the paved parking lot announcing the First Apostles Church. “Apostles” was certainly a foreign-sounding word to me, but I would soon find out that wasn’t the only vocabulary lesson I was to receive that day.

Pulling into the drive, I remembered Jason telling me that he lived in the house located behind the church building at that address. I applied the brakes and looked out the windshield. There indeed was a small frame house located directly ahead, but also an even smaller, single-wide mobile home located next to that, closer to me on my left as I sat there in my motionless car. I saw the door open to the mobile home, and a young man emerged and stood on the metal deck just outside the entrance to the trailer. I recognized him from the newspaper picture...it was Jason Bower.

He smiled and waved at me to come in, so I pulled my car around and parked next to the trailer. When I got out I was amazed at how small the mobile home was. It was old, but neatly kept, with a two-tone brown paint job, well-manicured lawn and black metal stairs. I walked toward the first step and Jason leaned toward me and extended his right hand. “Hello, Mike!” he said sincerely, “Welcome, glad you could make it.” “Hello, uh...” I replied, and he quickly said, “Call me Jason.” I nodded and walked inside.

The interior was dimly lit, but my eyes quickly made the adjustment, and I could see clean, almost spartan furnishings in the living room and beyond into the dining area and tiny kitchen. The furniture and accessories were old, but pristine, as was the shag-type carpeting and linoleum. Jason said, “Come, sit over here,” and pulled out one of the two dinette chairs that looked like they came straight out of the Leave It To Beaver era. The layout of the mobile home’s living area, as far as I could see, was retro and what could be called comfy. Style and space didn’t matter; more important to me was the quiet and peace I felt there. I took off my jacket, slung it over the back of the chair and sat down.

“Can I get you a drink?” Jason asked, and I said, “Do you have any soda?” “No, I’m fasting, but I can give you some ice water.” What did he say? Fasting? Honestly, that was the first time I heard the term and was clueless as to its meaning. “OK, water is fine.” He got ice from the fridge and filled my glass, bringing it to the table, and sat down across from me.

We chatted for a while, small talk at first; then it turned into a Q&A session regarding my background, especially my history with illicit substances. I didn’t mind. All I wanted was God, and to get my life on the right track. If this young man could help me, any potential pain or embarrassment was a small price to pay for freedom.

Three things immediately struck me about my new Christian friend. First, his apparent sincerity and very evident intensity; it was almost like he was on speed or something. While he didn’t interrupt me while speaking, he was not at a loss for words, and I noticed right away that his body was tense and fidgeting. Second, his physical appearance; his piercing steel-blue eyes...it was as if they could see right through me. And I now know the reason for his extremely thin frame; he was fasting all the time. It looked like he weighed all of 110 pounds.

Lastly was the size of the Bible spread out on the small table in front of him. It was the biggest Bible I’d ever seen, and the most well- worn. Ragged pages with all kinds of markings; pen, pencil, highlighter colors from every spectrum of the rainbow were on almost every page I could see. I couldn’t help staring at it. I thought Bibles were to sit on a table display, like some sort of shrine or something. I never knew anyone who actually used his Bible before.

Like he was reading my mind, he said, “Do you have a Bible?” He was looking at me intently. I told him, “Well, we have a couple Bibles in my house. I’ve never really read them very much at all. When I did try to read them I really couldn’t understand it.”

“I read at least ten chapters a day,” he stated, matter-of-factly. “Sometimes the Lord leads me to read even more in one sitting.” I thought to myself, wow, this guy really must know his stuff.

“I can get a Bible for you if you want. I use the King James version. Do you have one of those?” I said I didn’t know, but I also remembered that one of my former employers gave me a Bible years before, thinking it would help me in my pitiful state of existence. I never read it, but I didn’t throw it away either. “Uh, what about a Living Bible?” I asked.

“Well that’s OK, but it’s really a paraphrase rather than a translation like the King James. King James is much more accurate. But if that’s all you have, you can start there. It’s important you start reading the Word of God right away to build up your inner man.” He then reached for his glass of water, and rather than bring it straight to his lips, his arm made a series of 90-degree turns around his Bible lying on the table, before he drank from it. It was weird.

I’m sure he saw the surprised look on my face because he smiled and said, “I don’t want to risk spilling any water on it. Messes up the ink. It’s a holy book, you know.” I just nodded my head. I was thinking, that sounds reasonable to me, I guess, but I wasn’t one hundred percent sure about it.

We talked for a few more minutes, and then he said, “Well, let’s pray.” So he started by acknowledging what the Lord had done in my life, thanking Him, and went on to pray for leading and guidance for me in the days ahead. It was great, and the presence of the Lord filled the little room where we sat. Tears were freely streaming down my face. It was a beautiful moment, and I thought it was a confirmation to me that this young man was indeed sent by God.

We stood up. “I’d like for you to come this Sunday for church. Here are the times we meet.” He handed me a small brochure with the First Apostles Church’s name on front. “Jesus’ disciples became the first apostles, that’s where we get our name. We’re apostolic in our doctrines or teaching, following what the apostles taught.” That answered one question, but I had a hundred more.

I gave him a snappy comeback by mumbling “Oh, I see,” and thanked him. I said I would come to church that Sunday, he reached out to give me a hug, we embraced clumsily, and I turned to go out the door. Just as I was reaching for the door knob Jason said from behind me, “By the way, has anyone ever talked to you about speaking in other tongues?”

The Marked Man

Suddenly I felt a sharp pain in my left side. I turned to look at the source of the jabbing sensation and Laura’s face filled my view screen. As I sat there for a nanosecond with my mouth hanging open, I noticed she was blushing and her eyes were wide with what could only be described as fear. She quickly glanced past my shoulder to some place behind me and to my right.

Turning immediately, Pastor Jason’s face got right up into mine, inches from my nose, and he looked angry. He was sweating profusely. His eyes looked as they were on fire, almost demonic. I quickly stole a peek around the sanctuary and was surprised to see everyone in attendance was looking at us. “Am I interrupting something Wittman? Maybe you have something to share?” Jason hissed. I guess I had reminisced a little too long for his tastes. “Sorry,” was my reply, but my words hit him squarely in the back as he purposefully walked away.

If I didn’t know it before, I knew it now...I was a marked man.